Chapter 1

You do know anything can happen. What makes all the things in life happen? Fate. Opportunity. And in this case Youth.

As a college student in 1960, the United States was in a transition. Still recovering from the Korean War, in a little recession with the presidential elections approaching, I was a small town Florida high school basketball standout that was sought out for a scholarship to play at a “small” out of state, mid-west university. My only close full ride offer was from an in state big city school that I didn’t want to go to. The other two big in-state schools always seemed to find students from the Midwest to fill their teams. All my other offers were from mid-west schools.

I was a “go with the flow” type of guy. When confronted with life’s decisions, I was taught to let destiny lead the way. Whatever opportunities there would be, would become evident and all I had to do was “go with the flow.”

At that point in time, freshmen athletes were not usually given a whole lot of attention. It was usually just practice, practice, practice, and then wait your turn when they needed you on the varsity squad. This school however, had it’s own way of using scholarship kids. The first question from the athletic department was, can you play anything else besides basketball? I played baseball in high school and was even scouted by the big leagues and was told I could go fairly high in the draft. When the coaches heard this, I was immediately whisked off to practice with the baseball team. Baseball is a fun game, so practice is fun, too. I had a good glove, but only batted about 350, which was not a very good average for college baseball. Then came the football coach. My high school was very small and did not have a football team. The closest I had been to football was a few PE classes where flag football was played. The football coaches tried me at receiving passes, playing a little line backer and finally decided I should be a tight end. Occasionally I would be catching a pass, but mostly I would be used to block for runs and quarterback protection. Not very demanding; and it was neat the way the football guys were fed. Lots of food was available to football guys. That is important to an underage (just 17) freshman player.

Food is perhaps not more important than sex to a hormonally unbalanced youth, but a real close second. But then you have to remember that mores were pretty arcane in 1960. Prudes were abundant and virginity common and guarded. Anyway, I ate at the training table. I could have seconds and thirds when I wanted and as much milk as I could drink. The football coaches said I needed more weight, so I was asked to drink three egg malts a day. I wasn’t going to argue with that. They even had snacks whenever I wanted something extra to eat. And there was fruit and sandwiches available for us anytime we walked down to the cafeteria. The football coaches wanted me to maintain at least 185 pounds on my six four frame. The only way that could be done is with weight training every day and food, lots of food.

At that time in the school’s athletic program, football took second behind basketball. The schedule showed that because the football team only played eight games, beginning the middle of September, and with the last game the weekend before thanksgiving. College football was not as important then except if you were in a major conference school like a military academy or Notre Dame.

Meanwhile, the basketball coaches thought I might be putting on too much weight, so they had me running wind sprints constantly to keep me fit for basketball. You might not think that would be a problem for a young guy used to baseball and basketball wind sprints, but now the college basketball court was ten feet longer than the high school court. Obviously the coaches of the different teams did not work together with some mutual scholarship students.

Football practice was fun but mystifying if you had not played before. You run your ass off for two-three minutes, then sit around for fifteen. When you are working on a specific group of plays, you may run around for fifteen to twenty minutes at a time. But mostly you sat and were supposed to watch how the other players were messing up with your position.

I had walked back to the water barrel for a drink, and I had noticed a very attractive female on the first bleacher row. She was standing on the seat, and looked like an amazon with the sun at her back. She turned slightly, and gave a profile of a huge chest. This big babe looked directly at me and smiled. Oh wow! To a seventeen-year-old, big tits were important, really important. She was big, with lots of meat on her bones, tall, with large breasts. (Keep in mind the 17-year-old perspective.) She had wide hips with a nice rounded butt. I could not take the time to say “hi” at that moment so I went back to wait for my turn to do tricks for the coaches.

When practice was finished, I checked the stands and alas the babe had vanished. Oh well, perhaps another day.

Earlier that day, Jack or John F. Kennedy, a Senator from Massachusetts running for President of the United States, came to campus. He arrived at the football stadium in a large bus that he had been touring the state in while campaigning. Kennedy, his wife, and a couple of other notables got into a big limousine convertible and drove slowly around the track surrounding the football field waving and shaking hands with those who could get close enough.

He then went up on a platform in the middle of the field and spoke for over thirty minutes. As a seventeen-year-old, I couldn’t vote and didn’t have an opinion on who should be our next president. Even though I was a political agnostic, it was exciting to be in a crowd that was enthusiastically cheering and applauding.

When his speech was finished, he walked to his bus, drove around the track once more then left for his next campaign stop.

The daily football practices started to hold a special appeal, as the big, tall, large-breasted babe appeared each day, often with several other beauties to watch the boys at play. The coaches started to give me plays where I hit a defender off the line then ran diagonally across the field as a supposed receiver. The only time I was to be thrown the ball was when the wide end or split end was covered. We actually practiced the play with me receiving the ball, cool. A football is easy to catch, a lot easier than a basketball thrown your direction with speed. Football players will argue about that, but let them get in a tight basketball game when your forward or fellow guard pushes a ball at you without looking. You have to feel it coming, receive it, dribble once or twice, knock some guy on his ass, and then either pass it off or lay it up. That was a hell of a lot tougher than catching an oblong ball and holding on to it while some jerk tries to cut you in two.

Amazingly the next Saturday on the second play of a real game the stupid coaches called me to go across the field. No sweat, I put a defensive back on his butt the way I was taught, then ran across the field with my right hand up. The idiot quarterback couldn’t see the wide-open split end down the field so he threw the ball to me. Easy catch. I took a step, planted my left foot then turned up field to run as hard as I could. All I knew was to go as hard as I could toward the end zone. The other team’s players kept hitting me but not in the legs, so I kept my legs moving until there was too much weight, and then I collapsed. The quarterback actually helped me up from the ground, cool. He was a senior. I was a freshman. That was really cool. We ran a couple of running plays then they called my number again to go across the field. The guy guarding me was right at the line so he was easy to bump hard. I ran across the field thinking that I was a diversion but all of a sudden the ball was in my hands. Again, I planted my foot and ran like hell toward the goal. It was only a couple of yards, but wonder of wonders, I scored. I didn’t know what to do with the ball so I just dropped it at the back line and ran to the position I was assigned to for special teams. Guys were slapping me on the helmet and back, yelling good stuff,

That game was my big deal in my college freshman year. I actually was thrown nine passes and caught eight. There was one that was at my feet and I didn’t get it. We won by 17 points. The other players forgot I was a freshman and were all very congratulatory to me. The coaches all gave me an “attaboy”.

The next week in practice I was a tight end and a wide end, which was probably closer to a split end. Anyway, there were about five plays where I did something to be able to be thrown the ball. We practiced ball handling where I held on to the ball while all the defensive guys used their fingernails to try to rake the ball out of my hands along with the skin on my wrists. Not cool. They never did get it away from me as I was used to jump balls on the basketball court.

That week in practice was cool, as the big, tall, large-breasted babe was there every day. I was too busy to go say hi to her but she did recognize me with a nice smile. Someway, somehow, I had to find out who she was and try to meet her.

My time was cramped even more as the basketball coach was having practices, getting ready for the non-conference games coming up in the early season. He was excusing me because of football, but I don’t think he liked it.

This week the other presidential candidate, Richard Nixon, showed up for his campaign speech. This happened to be the guy who lost the election later that year and just this campaign stop probably told the story as to why he lost. Kennedy had arrived in a bus campaigning at small towns everywhere. Nixon showed up riding in a helicopter after arriving at a nearby airport. Kennedy rode around the track in a convertible with his attractive wife shaking hands with many. Nixon walked to the podium, gave a dry speech, got back in the helicopter and left. This stop for each candidate was to influence the entire Southern tier of the state. Easy to see who made the best impression, even on that university campus.

The next Saturday we traveled to Miami of Ohio. It was cold. I’m a Florida boy and not used to the cold. The guys were razing me about me trying to stay warm but I didn’t care, as I was too cold to worry about what anyone else thought. One of the equipment guys gave me his equipment gloves, which were funky looking, white with blue knit cuffs and little rubber black dots on the hands. Anyway, when we went on offence the first time, I was still wearing the gloves. Uh oh, the coaches called my number on the crossing route play. I hit the defender hard then ran across the field, the ball came my way so I easily caught the ball then turned up field. No one was in my way so I ran as fast as I could. I didn’t look back as I knew that would slow me down perhaps that little bit that would keep me from scoring. I made it to the end zone and dropped the ball continuing to run back to where I was supposed to be on special teams for field goals and point after kicks.

When I got back to the sideline, a coach got in my face instantly. “What the hell do you have gloves on for?”

“To keep warm sir.” I answered.

“Who the hell told you that you were supposed to be warm?” He yelled.

“No one sir.”

“Get those fucking gloves off and act like a man.” He yelled then turned back to the game.

The next offensive series was all run so I didn’t see any action, but my hands were freezing. Since I was a freshman, my jersey didn’t have any pockets for my hands to keep warm. Only upper classmen got the benefit of the more expensive jerseys.

The next series my number was called on first down. The ball was right where it should be, but my hands wouldn’t close fast enough to bring it in. I actually didn’t even feel the ball when it hit my hands.

The idiot offensive coordinator called the same play again. Again, I leveled the defender but the ball bounced off my hands. Benched.

The line coach and the receiver coach came to me and asked what was the problem. “I can’t feel my hands, they’re too cold. I need gloves or something to keep my hands warm between plays.”

“Put them in your pockets.” They said simultaneously.

“My jersey doesn’t have pockets.” I answered.

One coach grabbed my jersey on the side and pulled it too him. Yep, no pockets.

“Okay, get those pussy gloves you had on before and let’s see if you can catch a fucking wimp pass.”

The equipment guy gave me his gloves again and I was able to warm up my hands before the next series. The first two plays were running plays that made good yards then on a second and two they called for a T4go which meant for me to block my defender, run to the middle of the field then go straight toward our goal. The quarterback said he would throw on three so I would have the ball about on four. I blocked the defender hard then ran down the field going to the middle. On the count of three, I looked for the ball and it was almost to me. Easy catch. I was already near full speed so I turned it up as hard as I could and made it to the five before some guy wrapped up my ankles. Two plays later we ran it in.